


maybe i did steal your heart  and i am such a perfect criminal that you never even noticed

by redbrunja



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Hotel Sex, Hotels, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ward promised he would never lie to her again. Skye intends to take shameless advantage of that promise. It doesn't quite work out like she intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catteo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catteo/gifts).



> *blows kisses to catteo*

Skye is struggling to put on lipgloss when Ward enters the hotel suite. She watches him in the vanity's mirror - black shirt, dark jeans, nothing-expression on his face - and fumbles with the lipgloss tube. Her control's better these days - like, impressively better– but the few times she's screwed up, the blackslash of her powers had been that much worse, as the braces on both her forearms can attest. Less micro, more actual fractures.

 

"What do you think?" she asks, not turning around. "Does this dress make me look fuckable?"

 

It's white - plunging v-neckline, provocatively short skirt - and she knows it makes her look super bangable.  She also knows that Ward knows she bought it especially for the date she has tonight, because she'd asked Kara to go shopping with her at a time when Ward was sure to overhear her.

 

Skye knows a lot of things, these days.

 

"Do you really want me to answer that?" Ward asks.

 

"Yeah," she drags out the word. "Otherwise I wouldn't have asked."

 

Ward shrugs, slowly walks over to her.

 

"It does," he said. "But I always want to fuck you." She thinks he means the words to sound challenging, intimidating maybe, but he just sounds factual.

 

Ward leans against the vanity and she has to turn towards him in order to see his face. He's taller than her, even lounging against furniture. And especially given that she's in bare feet, nothing but clear polish on her toes. The last of her red toenail polish chipped off somewhere between quarantine and her cell on the bus; she hasn't bothered to do more than swipe some transparent nails strengthener across her toenails in months.

 

"Jealous?" she continues, frustrated that he's not giving her the reaction she wants. She doesn't even know what that is, she just knows he's not giving it to her.

 

She can feel the warmth of his body, tipped towards her, but not touching. He is so careful not to touch her these days. The last time he had his hands on her was when he'd carried her, semi-conscious, from the wreckage she'd left of the third strike team sent to bring her back to SHIELD to the backseat of the SUV Kara was driving.

 

She wants him to touch her. She's wanted the heat of his hands, the feel of his body curved over her, for a long time, or maybe she'd never stopped, maybe even when she'd been shooting paper targets while repeating his name and watching him wake up at 5:30 a.m. through the cameras and _actually shooting him_ , maybe she'd never been able to stop wanting.

 

"Yes," he says, breathes, really.

 

She drops her lipgloss.

 

In this light, his eyes are a pale whiskey-color that makes her throat tight and he _still isn't kissing her._

 

She reaches out, brushes the tips of her fingers along his left cheekbone, over his light dusting of freckles. She still remembers the first time she'd realized he had freckles, how giddy it had made her feel, like she'd discovered some secret about him. If only she'd known.

 

She carefully touches the line of his jaw, his stubble rasping pleasantly against her skin.

 

She leans just that bit forward, brushes her mouth with his, and then he's finally kissing her.

 

Ward kisses her like penance, like a man asking for forgiveness, his lips soft, so soft against hers. He kisses her like she's fragile, like she's beloved, like she's breakable. It's nothing like the times he's kissed her before and for one horrible moment, she thinks she's gotten everything terribly wrong, that he's only been helping her because she was the one betrayal that he had a hope of making right, that Ward didn't love her anymore.

 

"Oh," she says, leaning back. She sounds like she's about to cry, and she's not, she's not disappointed at all, and then, " _Skye,_ " Ward says, his pupils blown black. He's looking at her like she's everything he ever wanted and it's awful, she's terrible, but she missed that look.

 

She goes to grab his shirt, can't quite manage it with her arm braces, but it doesn't matter, because Ward's kissing her, kissing her like he means it, like he's never going to stop. He presses her against the vanity, arches over her, his hands stroking her thighs, and she squirms against him, half-drunk on the heat of his body and the way he tastes.

 

"Wait, wait," she says against his mouth.

 

Ward makes a pained groan, hands flexing against her thighs before he forces himself to stop, dropping his head to her shoulder. He's panting, lust and the effort of holding himself back, his breath hot against her skin.

 

She strokes the nape of his neck reassuringly, just the tips of her fingers.

 

"I just have to-" she fumbles for her cell phone, taps out a quick message.

 

"Fuck him," Ward says hoarsely, head still against her shoulder, wrongly assuming she was texting her date. "Fuck. Him."

 

Skye hits send and then Ward's tugging the phone out of her grip, throwing it across the room. She hears something break when it hits the wall.

 

And then Ward lifts her up. She wraps her legs around his waist, goes back to kissing him as he heads toward the nearest bed.

 

She manages to get an arm between them but with her stupid fractures from her stupid inhuman powers, she can't even get his belt undone.

 

She makes a noise of frustration, whimpering.

 

Ward sets her down, her back against a wall.

 

"It's fine, you're perfect," Ward breathes into her ear before he kneels at her feet. His hands are under her dress, and he's tugging down her underwear. She steps out of her panties, kicks them aside.

 

Ward slides his hands up her legs, up her thighs. He presses his palm against her mound, and she couldn't help grinding against him.

 

Ward looks drunk, eyes wide and almost glazed. He sways towards her, clearly intending to put his mouth on her, but she tugs at the collar of his henley before he can, pinching the fabric between two fingers.

 

He gets the message.

 

He rises to his feet, lifts her up, and then he's sliding into her, thick and hard and perfect. She whines, just a little, at how good it feels, wraps her legs tighter around Ward's waist.

 

She can see every flicker of emotion that crosses Ward's face each time he pushes into her, every thrust. It feels so good, his cock inside her, his hands gripping her thighs hard, even the cool roughness of the wall at her back.

 

Skye arches her back, presses her shoulderblades against the wall, takes him just that much deeper.

 

The pleasure is winding tighter and tighter, she's almost, almost–

 

She drops her head to his shoulder, teeth clenched, her climax teasingly close.

 

"Skye, look at me," Ward says, and he sounds wrecked, desperate.

 

She forces her head back up, meeting his eyes again and that does it, the half-crazed look in his eyes, his hips snapping hard against hers, she is _gone._

She writhes against him as her climax hits and he fucks her through it, deep and hard and then he bites the curve of her neck, teeth scraping across her skin hard enough to draw blood as he comes in her.

 

They both kind of take a minute after that, Ward's weight keeping her pinning to the wall while she pets the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck.

 

After a while, Ward kisses her neck, right over the bite mark he just left, and carries her to her bed.

 

He sets her down gently on top of the covers, and when she lifts her arms, he obediently unzips her dress, lifts it over her head. He tosses her white dress in the general direction of her closet and then pulls off his shirt with one hand, ducking his head down, and throwing it in sort-of the same direction.

 

Skye watches this whole production appreciatively.

 

She didn't expect him to then kneel down at the side of her bed, draping her legs over his shoulders. She lets herself fall back onto the bed, closing her eyes.

 

Ward spreads her open with two fingers and _licks,_ a long broad press of his tongue against the sensitive, messy folds of her sex.

 

Skye gasps, hips lifting automatically. She usually gives herself a bit more downtime before going for orgasm number two, and she's _never_ had a guy decide that _she_ was the appropriate post-coital snack, but–

 

She's not complaining.


	2. Chapter 2

Kara changes her face three times inbetween the tenth floor and the lobby.

 

Her scars never look worse than when she's switching from Skye's face back to her own.

 

She decides to stick with her real face only minutes before the elevator doors open, and regrets that choice almost immediately.

 

Skye asked her to tell her date that she wasn't going to show up, and while Kara doesn't think Skye would be upset if Kara did that while wearing Skye's face, Skye's date probably wouldn't like getting turned down by someone as pretty as Skye. But it wasn't like Kara couldn't handle him if he got pushy. The only real advantage of Kara wearing her own face is that Skye's date would probably take one look at her and forget he'd thought he had a shot with Skye.

 

She hesitates right outside the door of the hotel's bar. She had vague, wispy memories of warning guys away from other girls. Like most of her memories from before Whitehall, they felt pale in her own head, insubstantial and divorced from any emotions.

 

Had she enjoying warning off assholes who needed it? Maybe.

 

It probably would have been more fun if she'd be relying on her training to do so, instead of the wreck Whitehall and Melinda May and her own incompetency had left of her face.

 

"Hey, odd question, is your ex-boyfriend behind that door?" someone says next to her.

 

Kara whipped her head to the side to see a handsome man in an expensive grey suit looking at her quizzically.

 

"Soon to be ex-boyfriend?" he continues. "Because you look pretty pissed."

 

"Um, no," Kara says after a moment. "I was just - about to go in."

 

"Should you?" he asks. "I don't mean to pry, but there are a lot of people who probably should not be walking into bars."

 

It takes a minute for the penny to drop.

 

"Oh, no, that's not one of my problems. I have many but –not that one," she says. "I'm actually, sort of meeting someone...."

 

"Me too," he says, and Kara puts two and two together and suppresses a flinch. Skye wasn't lying when she said her date was cute, which makes what she's about to do worse.

 

"Were you... meeting a girl named Mel?" Kara bites her lip.

 

He opens his mouth, clearly about to ask how she knows, and then chuckles, which wasn't the reaction she was expecting.

 

His gaze flicked over her.

 

"You know, I think you're the best kiss-off I've ever received," he said musingly.

 

Kara felt her head jerk back, her cheeks heat.

 

She reminds herself that he, obviously, did not mean it like that.

 

He's smiling, looking her right in the eyes, not forced at all. He has a great poker face - or excellent media training - given that he doesn't appear to have any trouble not staring at her scars.

 

"Well, since I no longer have a date tonight, can I buy you a drink?" he asks.

 

Kara strokes her hair, debates. Obviously, she is his second choice for this evening but there are worse things to be than a handsome man's second choice. And if she says no, she is just going to spend the next several hours in the hotel lobby trying to think of something she would have fun doing and being unable to make a decision about it until Skye finally sends her an 'it's okay to come back to the hotel suite' text. Oh, god, knowing Grant, knowing how he feels about Skye, Kara could be waiting for that text until  _tomorrow_.

 

"...yes," she said finally. "I would like a drink, please."

 

He makes a show of wiping off his brow. "Whew," he said. "I was on tenterhooks there."

 

"I'm Thomas," he says, holding out a hand. "But I guess you knew that."

 

"I didn't actually," Kara admitted, shaking his hand.  "My friend just said to look for a cute guy with blue eyes."

 

"So you think I'm cute?" he hasn't let go of her hand, and now his thumb is stroking her knuckles.

 

" _My friend_ said you were cute."

 

"So you don't think I'm cute?"

 

"Well, of course," she answers automatically.

 

His smile widens.

 

She jerks her hand out of his, starts playing with her hair again. A bad habit; but not as bad as her chronic indecision when faced with a menu or free time, so, not technically another example of her failure to be an actual person.

 

Thomas pulls open the door, still smiling at her.

 

"I'm sorry, that was naughty of me," he says.

 

What was with him and his word choices? It almost sounded like he was flirting with her.

 

"Now, let's see about getting that drink...."

 

"Kara," she answers the implied question. "I'm Kara."

 

"Pleasure's all mine," Thomas said, and now he was shaking her hand again, his fingers cool and sure in hers.


	3. Chapter 3

Ward massages shampoo into Skye's hair while she trains with the water.

 

Over her head, he has a perfect view as she twists the shower's spray into spirals between her hands. He gently works the lather into her hair, watches suds slide down her neck, across the love-marks he'd left on her shoulders. If he takes half a step back, he can gaze at the graceful  line of her back, the pert curve of her ass, all of her skin glistening with water and glowing from the heat of the shower. She has bruises on her thighs from where his hands had gripped her last night, holding her against the wall while he'd fucked her. His erection throbs at the thought, lust and possessiveness and love all curling through his chest.

 

With her arms raised and braces off, he can also see the bruising that decorates her skin from palms to her upper arms, deep purples and ugly greens fading to sickly yellow, the kind of bruising patterns you get with blows repeated day after day after day.

 

Her delight - the feeling of her powers - her nudity - his memories of last night - none of that is quite enough to completely distract him from the sick feeling seeing those bruises causes him.

 

She twists the water slower, working against gravity, and Ward feels the vibrations on his skin, in his blood, through his bones. It doesn't matter if she's working on her control or tearing buildings apart, Ward feels her power curled around his spine, deep inside. (But Skye always feels like she's touching him deep inside, bringing life to places he'd thought had been dead for years - her smile, her laugh, the softness of her dark, dark eyes - why should her ability to cause earthquakes be any different?)

 

She drops her hands, the water returning to linear patterns. She steps forward, turning to face him as she tips her head back, rinsing her hair. He follows, cupping her breasts, enjoying the weight of them in his palms. Water is streaming down her body, her breasts, her belly, her legs.

 

Skye runs her fingers along his cock, tilts her head to the side, considering. She starts to step up onto the bathtub's rim and he almost rolls his eyes.

 

He puts his hands on her waist, lifts her up against the tiles instead.

 

"Aren't you, like, tired of holding me up?" she asks. She sounds flippant but one hand rests on his bullet scars.

 

"No," he says, letting his voice fill with incredulity. He lowers her slowly onto his cock, watches her eyes flutter closed as she stretches around him, as she shifts to take him deeper.

 

Ward could be three quarters dead, and he still wouldn't be tired of holding her up, not with that expression on her face, not with her cunt tight and hot around him.


	4. Chapter 4

Kara slips into the hotel room ahead of him. Before he can turn on the lights she catches his hand, tugs him up against her. Thomas kicks the door shut with his heel, enveloping them in darkness. She goes up on her toes but she barely needs to, because he is  _right there,_ kissing her hot mouth. Kara slides her palms up the lapels of his suit as he kisses her, tasting whiskey and woman on her tongue.

 

Thomas has never been happier to have been stood up in his life.

 

Sure, Mel had been hot, and they would have had fun tearing up the sheets together, but Kara is just... interesting, brittle, into him. She shivers when his mouth is on her. She has gun calluses and deep, dark eyes

 

He and Kara spent hours in the bar downstairs, him flirting and trying to draw her out, her dancing around his overtures and granting him brief, insightful comments.

 

At around two-thirty a.m., when the barstaff were starting to give them looks that said 'this is a hotel, GTFO of here and take advantage of the fact' he caught her checking her phone.

 

Turns out she is sexiled from the suite she was sharing with two friends who'd _finally_ decided to stop tormenting Kara with their denial and sexual tension and _fucking bone down_ (he's paraphrasing, Kara was a lot sweeter about how inconsiderate they were) and she was waiting for the 'we've stopped fucking, it's safe to come back to _your hotel room_ ' text.

 

"You're welcome to spend the night with me," he'd offered.

 

Kara had given him _that look_ , the adorable one that said she wasn't sure if she should listen to what he was literally saying, or the tone of his voice, which was all 'let me lick every inch of your skin'.

 

He'd decided to clarify for her, as cute as her confusion was. "I mean it both ways," he'd said. "If you want to crash on my ridiculously comfortable bed all by yourself, I'll be a gentleman, take the floor." His smile had widened. "If you want to crash on my ridiculously comfortable bed and keep whatever poor bastard is staying next to me awake all night, I'm game."

 

Kara had stared at him for a long, long moment, and then knocked back the last of her whiskey sour.

 

"Yes," she'd said, standing up.

 

Thomas hadn't been 100% certain she was choosing option two until she'd kissed him at the door, her tongue curling sweetly against his.

 

The hotel room's standard layout means that neither of them need a light to find the bed.

 

They fall back on the bed together. Kara wraps her legs around him as they kiss. She makes these soft, glorious sound under him, her hips shifting restlessly against his. He'll break their kisses occasionally, just to feel her move after him.

 

She's intoxicating; he feels drunker after tasting her mouth than he does after an entire evening of drinking. Or maybe it's not her mouth that does it, maybe it's the way she touches him, so soft and careful. She runs her fingers along the side of his face, lightly strokes his shoulders like she wants to pull him closer and doesn't quite dare. Tender, that's the word. He can't remember the last time anyone touched him like that.

 

All he's thinking about is how much he wants to take off her clothes, to see the

the slow reveal of her glorious golden skin as he undresses her.

 

He gropes for the bedside lamp's switch.

 

Kara slaps his hand away the second after he hits it. Light fills the room and then she's turning her face into the pillow, hands flying to cover her scar. Her gloriously supple body goes taut and tense under him.

 

Her breathing is loud, and not in the good yes-baby-right-there way.

 

Thomas automatically shifts his weight off her.

 

"Hey, come back," he says. He leans down, nudged the tip of her nose with his.

 

Kara stares at him, wide-eyed. She slowly lowers her hands.

 

"There you are," he says, reaching up to cup the side of her face, his fingers resting on the rougher, cool skin of her scars, his thumb brushing the soft warmth of her mouth.

 

He lowers his mouth to hers and _thank you, thank you, thank you,_ she opens her mouth to his, her tongue sliding against his in teasing flicks that have almost every drop of his blood heading towards his cock.

 

But even so, he catches her sneaking one hand towards the lamp. He bats her hand away, still kissing her. She tries again, and he tangles his fingers with hers, keeps kissing her. The third time she reaches for the lamp, he takes advantage of his longer arms to shove the lamp further along the bedside table. She squirms to the side, after it, giving him the gentlest, teasingest bites to his bottom lip. (If he never gets to experience her mouth of his cock, Thomas thinks he might actually cry).

 

She wiggles slightly further to the side, one hand still going for that lamp, and he _intends_ to press one thigh firmly between hers to keep her in place and also, you know, for her pleasure and enjoyment, only he's run out of mattress, and he ends up sliding them off the bed.

 

He twists so Kara lands on top of him and she grabs the bedside table in an attempt to save herself and manages to knock it to one side with a crash. (The lamp stayed on. Sturdy lamp. Good lamp.)

 

Thomas laughs.

 

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she whispers and that just makes him laugh harder.

 

The person in the next to them bangs on the wall.

 

"Keep it down," random person yells.

 

"Go fuck yourself," Thomas shouts back. Kara giggles and slaps a hand over her moth.

 

"Also, free advice," Thomas continues loudly, "switch rooms right the fuck now because it is _not_ going to get any quieter. What an asshole," he says to Kara, rolling them so she's back under him.

 

She shrugs. "Still," she said. "It is late. We should be quiet. I can be quiet."

 

Thomas grins at her, unzipping her jeans and slipping his hand inside. "Bet you can't," he says. He follows a hunch, slips two fingers inside her before he even touches her clit. She's already slick and gloriously hot. Kara moans, hips lifting. Three pumps of his fingers and she's clinging to his shoulders, nails pricking his skin through the fabric of his shirt. He circles her clit with his thumb, light and teasing, and she fucking _whimpers_.

 

He is _so_ winning this bet.


End file.
